The Bet, Chapter 2 (PG-13)
Posted: Mon Jul 26, 2010 3:56 pm
Disclaimer, etc: Once again, I don’t, to my everlasting sorrow, own Josef. In addition, I will note that the idea for this story came to me courtesy of Kylara. I owe her big-time, for entrusting me with writing her concept! So, without further ado…
The Bet
Chapter 2
IV.
September, 1911, San Francisco
The doorman at the Bear Flag Club looked thoughtfully at the young man seeking admittance. There was no question that he was a member in good standing; in fact, he was well known to the uniformed gate keeper. Jacob Floria had, after all, been serving in his position since before the great earthquake of ’06 had leveled most of the city. And you didn’t become the head doorman at the most exclusive gentlemen’s club in the city by not knowing the members. It was just that, of all the millionaires who crossed the threshold, this one was—different. Businessmen, even young and fit ones, changed, as the years went on. Their middles spread from time behind their desks, from heavy dinners with associates and late nights swilling brandy and whiskey in places like this. Seven years Mr. Fitzgerald had been a member of the Bear Flag, and he hadn’t changed. He still looked like a man in the first flower of manhood, the first flush of his full adult power.
Josef saw the look. He knew what it meant. Well, it was getting time to move on anyway. He’d already been pondering locations for some time. He’d gotten used to the West, liked the style of business here, and had no inclination to go back to the Eastern seaboard. He liked New Orleans—they seemed to have an instinctive tolerance for his kind there. The climate was too damned hot, though. Seattle might suit. That was an up and coming town. It had been some time since he tried his hand in Chicago. He’d have to make up his mind, soon.
There was a war coming. Josef read the papers, even the ones his friend William Randolph published, and he could smell the war clouds gathering. For Josef, that meant money to be made, but it also meant that he had to be careful. It was already getting harder to craft new identities. Preparations had to be made, plans finalized. And soon.
Josef frowned, partly from his thoughts, and partly because he knew it made him look older. “Evening, Jacob,” he said.
He nodded. “Mr. Fitzgerald.” It was all the conversation they ever exchanged.
Inside the door, Josef handed off his hat and gloves to a waiting steward, trying to recall the man’s name. The September evening was balmy, even for San Francisco, and Josef had worn no topcoat.
“Good evening, Mr. Fitzgerald,” the steward said. “Mr. Hearst asked me to tell you he’s in the Sacramento Room.”
“Good. Have one of the waiters bring up an extra bottle of whatever he’s drinking, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks, James.” Josef never cared to encourage familiarity, but he also understood the value of treating servants with the proper courtesy.
The Bear Flag Club was as well-appointed as any gentlemen’s retreat in the East, and the Sacramento Room was a one of the finer examples of local materials adapted to an older standard. The wood paneling was native to the state, a rich redwood polished to a subtle gleam. The furniture was in the new Mission style, a nod to the Spanish and frontier roots of the state, with the comfort of deep leather cushioning. Josef liked it; the broad wooden arms of the chairs were handy for balancing a drink or an ashtray. The rugs covering the planked hardwood floors were red, black, and tan .native designs. For a relatively new building, the place exuded permanence, and a casual, California style of tasteful big money. The aim had been to create an architectural and decorative representation of the membership. Josef always thought they’d succeeded admirably.
As William Randolph stood to greet him, though, all sense of the room fell away. Josef was used to being the most dynamic presence in any room he entered, but William Randolph Hearst was a worthy opponent for that distinction. At nearly fifty, there was little trace left of the boy Josef had met in Europe almost forty years earlier. Josef always experienced an odd moment of vertigo at seeing someone he’d met as a child, now apparently older than himself. Hearst was not a handsome man, his features too strong, too heavy for that. But he radiated energy, power. Shrewdness. There was always a measuring element to his stare, as though he were calculating how much a man’s soul would cost him. He could afford it, whatever the price, and he’d had ample proof of that.
“Josef. It’s been too long,” he said, extending his hand.
“You don’t get to San Francisco often enough, William Randolph.”
Hearst snorted. “That’s the truth. I’m about ready to give up on New York.”
“Well, if they don’t have the good sense to elect you to the statehouse, why not?” Josef replied. “And did I hear Millicent has given you another son?”
“She’s one reason I’ve stayed in New York.” He seated himself, and retrieved his drink.
Josef pulled up a chair close by. “I’d inquire after your formidable mother, but all I have to do is read the papers.”
“Smartest thing those ivory tower fools up at Berkeley ever did, making her a regent. They know it, too—she reminds them often enough.” He waved a hand, dismissing the subject. “That’s not why I asked you to meet me.”
“Yes, I was wondering about that,” Josef replied. They’d kept in touch over the years, but the request that had brought him here this evening was out of the ordinary.
William Randolph leaned forward, all the easy friendliness in his eyes replaced with shrewd calculation. “So tell me, Josef. Why did you do it?”
Josef blinked. “Do what?”
“She’s gone. And I’ve thought about it. I don’t know how, but you had to have had a hand in it.”
He didn’t need to elaborate. Josef knew instantly what he meant. Since that first time, over thirty-five years earlier, they’d met half a dozen times or more in Paris, and never without a visit to the Salon Carré. Never without a time to visit their lady love, their shared obsession.
A little over a month ago, on a quiet Monday in August, the Mona Lisa had been stolen. The news went around the world in a shot, outraging millions who had never visited Paris, never seen Leonardo’s masterpiece except in reproduction. The Parisian police were investigating, but so far, the few clues they’d turned up had led precisely nowhere. It was as though the painting had vanished into thin air. And with every day that passed, the official finger-pointing by both Louvre officials and the Paris authorities grew more acrimonious. The job—whoever had done it—had been pulled off with an astonishing amount of skill and precision. And at least a generous portion of luck. Josef could understand why William Randolph might have come to the conclusion that there had been vampire involvement. More specifically, Josef Kostan-inspired vampire involvement. He wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted.
“Why,” he said, “are you assuming I had something to do with this?”
“How long have you been in San Francisco?”
Josef squinted as though thinking. “Eight years next February. This is relevant, because?”
“You’re evading. You got back from a trip to Europe two weeks ago.”
“I was in the Hague on business, not that it’s any of yours.” Josef stood and paced over to the sideboard to pour himself a stiff drink. William Randolph was drinking a particularly fine single malt this evening, he noted absently. “Frankly, after all the years we’ve known each other, I’m damned annoyed you’d assume I’d be involved in this outrage. In fact, of the two of us, I’d say you’d be more likely to have a finger in that particular pie.”
Hearst didn’t have a ready answer for that sally. After all, he was the one spending incalculable amounts buying up entire chateaux and shipping them to California one room at a time, not Josef. At length, he sighed and said, “I know it’s not me. Besides, I’m not the one who has—special skills.” He shifted his gaze, too circumspect to say the word where other ears might be listening.
“No, but you do have the money to hire it done. That’s a pretty special skill in and of itself.” Josef took a gulp at his drink. “You know, William Randolph, in all the time I’ve known you, until now I never thought it was a mistake to let you in on my—secret.”
The two men stared at each other, faces hard. Josef knew William Randolph was remembering, as he was himself. Remembering a meeting twenty-five years before, in a smoky bar in the Montmartre, watching a line of women kicking up their heels to a chorus of yips and low yells of masculine encouragement.
V.
Paris, Late Spring, 1885[
William Randolph tried to ignore the drunken singing of his companions in the fiacre as the horse clip-clopped through the late night streets on the way to Montmartre, and focused instead on the nodding head of the old driver. A full moon sailed high overhead in the crisp air, the light of it dimming the starry skies over the city. They’d already climbed away from the Seine, and a turn occasionally gave him a glimpse of the city behind him. He’d been able to pick out the great bulk of Notre Dame, resting like a ship at anchor in the river. The Seine itself was a black and silver ribbon running through Paris. At the moment, as far as William Randolph was concerned, it might as well be a discarded frippery. He’d come to Paris to be grandly dissipated, and finish washing the taste of Harvard, and his rustication from that august institution, out of his mouth, but he was about ready to quit playing and start working. Start in on what he’d lately come to realize he was meant to do. But not before a last night or ten of indulgence.
When the fiacre halted, it jolted him out of his reverie. He paid little attention to the torrent of disgruntled commentary from the driver. He understood it, although his mother had never intended he learn this particular vocabulary. He simply didn’t care. Their destination was at the top of the hill, and the driver was explaining, in a manner of speaking, that he had no intention of forcing his poor, overworked horse to haul les Americains up an unreasonably steep street at this godforsaken hour of the night. Not for the pittance that he was charging them. He pointed with his whip. If they wanted to get to Le Chat Noir, they were welcome to walk the last bit.
Harkness, Bennington, and Williams protested drunkenly, but Doyle asserted that he could use a bit of a walk to clear his head. Good man, William Randolph thought. He was a bit muzzy-headed himself, at the moment. But Le Chat Noir had one of the most scandalous reputations in all of jaded Paris, for the wildness of its cancan dancers, and the absinthe that sent its patrons into fantastic, waking dreams. William Randolph was determined, this once, to sample the absinthe, and see what sort of dangerous visions it brought him.
The singing abated as they climbed the hill away from the imprecations of the driver. Ahead of them, they could see the façade of their destination, the sign brightly lit from below, and the stylized form of the snarling cat that had lent its name to the establishment was a looming black presence to the side of the gaslit sign. Below, posters on either side of the entrance advertised featured dancers, the bold outlines of La Goulue’s black stockinged legs stark amid the froth of raised petticoats that obscured her face. Even at this hour, the door was busy, men in top hats and elegant topcoats mingling with smocked workingmen coming and going. William Randolph noted wryly that the ones who seemed the most impaired by alcohol were at the better-dressed end of the spectrum.
The crowd inside was jostling for space among the small tables that filled the floor. The atmosphere was thick with the heavy scent of strong French cigarettes and ringing with conversation that almost drowned out the music of the house band, a tinny piano that William Randolph guessed had last been tuned in the reign of Emperor Napoleon, two clarinets, two trumpets, a drummer, and an oom-pah bass. All the musicians wore an air of exhausted ennui to match the tired droop of their collars. At present, the stage was empty, and William Randolph checked his watch, wondering when the next performance would begin.
Doyle spotted a table opening up, and pounced. It was tiny, and they were literally rubbing shoulders with the rest of the crowd, but it was a place to sit, and even if the waiter bore a look of bored disdain above his liberally stained apron, William Randolph refused to let it dampen his enthusiasm.
Before long, he was staring at a bulbous glass containing a good inch of pale green liquid. He picked it up and sniffed experimentally, the bitterness cutting through the tobacco fog. He’d never smelled wormwood, but the astringent herbal aroma of the liquor in his glass seemed foul enough to square with the stories he’d been told. Bennington, who’d seen it done before, offered advice on procedure, as William Randolph balanced a sugar cube on the special slotted spoon over the top of the glass, and dripped cold water from the carafe in the approved fashion. He watched in fascination as the mixture turned from green to a cloudy opal, the aromas blooming with intoxicating complexity.
As he took a last slow breath before setting the glass to his lips, a burst of loud laughter across the room caught his attention. There were not many women in the bar, but this one group seemed to consist of several brightly clad young females, clustered around a pale, auburn-haired man, his flawless evening dress setting off an intense face.
William Randolph frowned, and took a long sip from his glass of absinthe. He’d seen that man somewhere, he was sure of it. The slight burn of irritation with partial recognition was a stronger sensation to him than the muted power of the diluted absinthe. He took another sip, deeper than the first. Even with the water and sugar, the alcohol buzzed and burned along his veins, the bitter herbal flavor adding another dimension of oddity. Of course, he’d hardly been sober before they’d essayed the trip to Le Chat Noir. This was something different, however. Something…beyond.
Another burst of high-pitched laughter from the group of women drew his attention away from his glass. This time, as he stared across the room, the young man at the center of attention made eye contact with him, lifting a glass of deep red wine with an ironic smile.
That face. It was so familiar. The edge of memory itched in his brain, and, distracted, William Randolph took a hard swallow of his absinthe without thinking, almost choking on the burn. And came to a decision. He seemed to be watching himself, detached, as he slid his chair back from the table and stood. He noted that his movements were both more deliberate and less assured than usual, as he made his way across the room.
The auburn-haired young man looked up with a decidedly sardonic glint in his eye. “Oui, monsieur?” he asked.
“I know you from somewhere,” William Randolph replied. “Can’t think where, but I know you.”
The mask of amused indifference slipped. “Somehow, I think not,” he said, his English bearing an American accent. A pause. “Then again, I have a wide acquaintance. What is your name?”
“Hearst. William Randolph Hearst.”
The stranger blinked, and William Randolph thought he paled slightly, although the dim light made it hard to tell. “Really.” He looked away, mouth slightly open, as though his thoughts had overtaken speech. At length, he looked back and said, “And who is it you think I am, William Randolph Hearst?”
Maybe it was the absinthe, maybe it was hearing his own name spoken, but a gate opened in William Randolph’s mind, and he had a crystalline memory of shaking hands with a man—this man—and exchanging names. “Kostan,” he said. “Your name is Josef Kostan. But that’s not possible.”
“No. It’s not. My name is Fitzgerald.” He began to turn away, back to the blandishments of his companions, and William Randolph clearly heard one of them addressing him as “Josef.”
William Randolph shot a hand out to grasp Fitzgerald’s upper arm. “I’m not mistaken. I remember you,” he insisted.
Fitzgerald looked down coldly at William Randolph’s hand, and peeled his grip away without effort. “I can’t help your perceptions,” he said. “Perhaps you should get back to your friends.”
“Look, just meet me tomorrow. Let’s talk.”
Fitzgerald shifted his eyes, lips pressed in a tight smile. “All right. I shouldn’t, but—all right.”
“Where? When?”
“Four o’clock.” Fitzgerald’s smile broadened a bit, sparking warmth into his brown eyes. “As to where—if I am who you think I am, then you know where to meet me.” This time, his turn away was dismissive, and William Randolph was alone in the crowd, as the band struck a raucous chord. The stage filled with a cloud of flashing colors, as the string of dancers ran out, black stockings kicking up in the cancan.
VI
William Randolph frowned down at the damp stains on his boots and trouser legs. What a miserable rainy day. He’d walked half the way from his hotel to the Louvre before finding a carriage for hire. Perhaps not the best decision, but whatever his faults, he was punctual, and this was one meeting he was not about to be tardy in attending.
He remembered quite clearly the brilliance of the sky the night before, when his friends had laid him in an open fiacre on the way home from Le Chat Noir. Thank God for Harkness and Doyle. He hadn’t been much use for anything but staring up at the wheeling stars overhead. Although at least he hadn’t been completely pie-eyed like that ass, Bennington, the good-for-nothing sot. He didn’t remember much else until he’d awakened late in the morning with a throbbing head and a terrible thirst. He certainly hadn’t heard the low, distant rumble of thunder as the heavy clouds rolled in before dawn, or the sharper crack of the lightning when the storm finally broke across the city and settled into a steady downpour.
All he knew was that he’d been obscurely pleased at the dimness of the day, the muted light so much kinder to his eyes than sunshine.
Even while fortifying himself for the remainder of the day with coffee and croissants, it had not occurred to him that the weather would impede his progress. He’d spent most of his time, today, turning last night’s conversation over and over in his mind. He’d had no doubt, then, that the man calling himself Fitzgerald was his old friend Josef Kostan. Even at the age of twenty-two, the idea that a man might find it expedient to adopt a different name—for business purposes, he thought with a wry twist of his mouth—was not shocking. Between his father’s money and his mother’s formidable personality, he might have had a sheltered childhood, but the years at college had educated him in more things than Latin and history.
No, what bothered him was that after eleven years, the man looked not a single day older. That had been obvious even in the poor light of Le Chat Noir. He’d have reckoned Kostan was in somewhere in his mid-to-late twenties, both then and now. He tried to tell himself that he’d been a child when they first met, and all adults look ancient to a child, but that didn’t explain it. There was simply no way that over a decade of life left no mark whatsoever, that someone well into his thirties could possibly have that look of untouched youth.
Had it been looks alone, and even the coincidence of the first name, William Randolph might have been willing to dismiss the whole thing as a mistaken identification, but talking to him had sealed his conviction that Fitzgerald had to be Kostan. And he’d find out, shortly, what was going on. Or not. It all depended on whether or not anyone was waiting for him in the room ahead.
When Fitzgerald had told him there was one place they would meet, he’d known instantly what was meant. William Randolph marveled a little at the elegant simplicity of it. If Fitzgerald was not who William Randolph thought, there was no way he’d know to meet here. No way that bright head and neatly tailored back standing even now before the Mona Lisa could be—
“Kostan,” he breathed.
The man turned with a smirk. “I told you, it’s Fitzgerald,” he said. “And I thought we were on first name terms, William Randolph.”
Hearst sank down on a nearby bench. He was just noticing, they were alone in the Salon Carré. He wondered how that had happened, and suspected it wasn’t chance. “I knew it was you,” he said. “I knew it. But—you’re not a day older. How is that possible?”
Josef shoved his hands in his pockets of his well-tailored suit, and came to stand over his friend. He could smell no fear on the young man, only confusion. “Maybe it’s just good blood,” he responded. “I haven’t looked my age in—a very long time.”
Josef could see the thoughts whirling in William Randolph’s head painted on his face. The young man looked around, unsure whether to be glad or nervous that the gallery was empty of all but himself, Josef, and a dozen or so masterpieces of world art. “What are you telling me? And why?”
Josef smirked at him again. “I see your avid pursuit of la Fée Verte last night didn’t rob you of all your brains.”
William Randolph chuckled ruefully at the mention of the green fairy. “Not if the headache I had this morning was an indication. I don’t think absinthe will become my poison of preference. But that’s not really an answer to my question.”
Josef didn’t care to admit he wasn’t entirely certain himself why he was throwing one of his most closely held rules out the proverbial window. Cocking his head to one side, he shrugged. “I’m not really sure. I could have palmed you off with some story about an uncle, or a cousin. Hell, if enough time’s passed, I can even lay it off to chance resemblance.”
“I wouldn’t have believed that. Not after I heard your voice.”
“Indeed. I’ll have to remember that.”
“I idolized you as a child,” William Randolph said bitterly.
“And what have I done to change that?” Josef asked.
“I don’t know, Josef. You tell me.” He took a deep breath. “What are you?”
Josef turned away, thinking. “You were an extraordinary child, William Randolph. I anticipate you will become an extraordinary man.” He quirked a smile. “If you aren’t already there.” He pulled in a sharp breath. “I’m finding that when you get to a certain level of—influence—the number of men involved is limited. When I know someone who is poised to enter that group, there’s little point in hiding.” His expression grew more ironic. “Of course, usually I make sure I know their darkest secrets, first.”
William Randolph forced a shaky laugh. “So you’re saying you don’t know my secrets?”
“You’re not old enough to have secrets.”
“And how old are you?” William Randolph returned, stung.
“I doubt you’d believe the truth.”
“Try me.” William Randolph made direct eye contact, staring unflinching at Josef.
“You understand I rarely—”
“Just tell me.”
Josef’s mouth twitched, but whether in amusement or irritation William Randolph couldn’t tell. “Fine. Let’s just say, I won’t see 250 again.”
“Jesus Christ, Josef.” He rubbed his lower lip with one thumb, thinking. “Okay, if that’s true—and based on appearances I’m inclined to believe you—how do you do it?”
“I don’t ‘do’ anything. It’s more of a condition. And there’s a word, but it has what you might call negative connotations.”
“I don’t remember you being so evasive.”
“You asked easier questions, back then. And there’s very little to evade, when the topic is Renaissance painting.”
William Randolph snorted. “I do recall the sense of humor.” Then he took on a stubborn look, his strong features becoming imperious. “But am I supposed to let you get away without giving me that word?”
Josef scrubbed a hand through his short hair. “God, but you’re relentless. I’m not going to insult your intelligence—and our friendship, if that still exists—by giving you the ‘I mean you no harm’ speech.”
“Thank you, I think.”
Turning away, Josef walked over to stand in front of the Mona Lisa. “It never ceases to amaze me, how beautiful she is.”
William Randolph stood and joined him, regarding the painting with serious eyes. “I suppose you know something about ageless.”
Josef nodded, and they stood silent for several minutes. William Randolph had almost given up on an answer, when Josef spoke softly, a single word.
“Vampire.”
The Bet
Chapter 2
IV.
September, 1911, San Francisco
The doorman at the Bear Flag Club looked thoughtfully at the young man seeking admittance. There was no question that he was a member in good standing; in fact, he was well known to the uniformed gate keeper. Jacob Floria had, after all, been serving in his position since before the great earthquake of ’06 had leveled most of the city. And you didn’t become the head doorman at the most exclusive gentlemen’s club in the city by not knowing the members. It was just that, of all the millionaires who crossed the threshold, this one was—different. Businessmen, even young and fit ones, changed, as the years went on. Their middles spread from time behind their desks, from heavy dinners with associates and late nights swilling brandy and whiskey in places like this. Seven years Mr. Fitzgerald had been a member of the Bear Flag, and he hadn’t changed. He still looked like a man in the first flower of manhood, the first flush of his full adult power.
Josef saw the look. He knew what it meant. Well, it was getting time to move on anyway. He’d already been pondering locations for some time. He’d gotten used to the West, liked the style of business here, and had no inclination to go back to the Eastern seaboard. He liked New Orleans—they seemed to have an instinctive tolerance for his kind there. The climate was too damned hot, though. Seattle might suit. That was an up and coming town. It had been some time since he tried his hand in Chicago. He’d have to make up his mind, soon.
There was a war coming. Josef read the papers, even the ones his friend William Randolph published, and he could smell the war clouds gathering. For Josef, that meant money to be made, but it also meant that he had to be careful. It was already getting harder to craft new identities. Preparations had to be made, plans finalized. And soon.
Josef frowned, partly from his thoughts, and partly because he knew it made him look older. “Evening, Jacob,” he said.
He nodded. “Mr. Fitzgerald.” It was all the conversation they ever exchanged.
Inside the door, Josef handed off his hat and gloves to a waiting steward, trying to recall the man’s name. The September evening was balmy, even for San Francisco, and Josef had worn no topcoat.
“Good evening, Mr. Fitzgerald,” the steward said. “Mr. Hearst asked me to tell you he’s in the Sacramento Room.”
“Good. Have one of the waiters bring up an extra bottle of whatever he’s drinking, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks, James.” Josef never cared to encourage familiarity, but he also understood the value of treating servants with the proper courtesy.
The Bear Flag Club was as well-appointed as any gentlemen’s retreat in the East, and the Sacramento Room was a one of the finer examples of local materials adapted to an older standard. The wood paneling was native to the state, a rich redwood polished to a subtle gleam. The furniture was in the new Mission style, a nod to the Spanish and frontier roots of the state, with the comfort of deep leather cushioning. Josef liked it; the broad wooden arms of the chairs were handy for balancing a drink or an ashtray. The rugs covering the planked hardwood floors were red, black, and tan .native designs. For a relatively new building, the place exuded permanence, and a casual, California style of tasteful big money. The aim had been to create an architectural and decorative representation of the membership. Josef always thought they’d succeeded admirably.
As William Randolph stood to greet him, though, all sense of the room fell away. Josef was used to being the most dynamic presence in any room he entered, but William Randolph Hearst was a worthy opponent for that distinction. At nearly fifty, there was little trace left of the boy Josef had met in Europe almost forty years earlier. Josef always experienced an odd moment of vertigo at seeing someone he’d met as a child, now apparently older than himself. Hearst was not a handsome man, his features too strong, too heavy for that. But he radiated energy, power. Shrewdness. There was always a measuring element to his stare, as though he were calculating how much a man’s soul would cost him. He could afford it, whatever the price, and he’d had ample proof of that.
“Josef. It’s been too long,” he said, extending his hand.
“You don’t get to San Francisco often enough, William Randolph.”
Hearst snorted. “That’s the truth. I’m about ready to give up on New York.”
“Well, if they don’t have the good sense to elect you to the statehouse, why not?” Josef replied. “And did I hear Millicent has given you another son?”
“She’s one reason I’ve stayed in New York.” He seated himself, and retrieved his drink.
Josef pulled up a chair close by. “I’d inquire after your formidable mother, but all I have to do is read the papers.”
“Smartest thing those ivory tower fools up at Berkeley ever did, making her a regent. They know it, too—she reminds them often enough.” He waved a hand, dismissing the subject. “That’s not why I asked you to meet me.”
“Yes, I was wondering about that,” Josef replied. They’d kept in touch over the years, but the request that had brought him here this evening was out of the ordinary.
William Randolph leaned forward, all the easy friendliness in his eyes replaced with shrewd calculation. “So tell me, Josef. Why did you do it?”
Josef blinked. “Do what?”
“She’s gone. And I’ve thought about it. I don’t know how, but you had to have had a hand in it.”
He didn’t need to elaborate. Josef knew instantly what he meant. Since that first time, over thirty-five years earlier, they’d met half a dozen times or more in Paris, and never without a visit to the Salon Carré. Never without a time to visit their lady love, their shared obsession.
A little over a month ago, on a quiet Monday in August, the Mona Lisa had been stolen. The news went around the world in a shot, outraging millions who had never visited Paris, never seen Leonardo’s masterpiece except in reproduction. The Parisian police were investigating, but so far, the few clues they’d turned up had led precisely nowhere. It was as though the painting had vanished into thin air. And with every day that passed, the official finger-pointing by both Louvre officials and the Paris authorities grew more acrimonious. The job—whoever had done it—had been pulled off with an astonishing amount of skill and precision. And at least a generous portion of luck. Josef could understand why William Randolph might have come to the conclusion that there had been vampire involvement. More specifically, Josef Kostan-inspired vampire involvement. He wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted.
“Why,” he said, “are you assuming I had something to do with this?”
“How long have you been in San Francisco?”
Josef squinted as though thinking. “Eight years next February. This is relevant, because?”
“You’re evading. You got back from a trip to Europe two weeks ago.”
“I was in the Hague on business, not that it’s any of yours.” Josef stood and paced over to the sideboard to pour himself a stiff drink. William Randolph was drinking a particularly fine single malt this evening, he noted absently. “Frankly, after all the years we’ve known each other, I’m damned annoyed you’d assume I’d be involved in this outrage. In fact, of the two of us, I’d say you’d be more likely to have a finger in that particular pie.”
Hearst didn’t have a ready answer for that sally. After all, he was the one spending incalculable amounts buying up entire chateaux and shipping them to California one room at a time, not Josef. At length, he sighed and said, “I know it’s not me. Besides, I’m not the one who has—special skills.” He shifted his gaze, too circumspect to say the word where other ears might be listening.
“No, but you do have the money to hire it done. That’s a pretty special skill in and of itself.” Josef took a gulp at his drink. “You know, William Randolph, in all the time I’ve known you, until now I never thought it was a mistake to let you in on my—secret.”
The two men stared at each other, faces hard. Josef knew William Randolph was remembering, as he was himself. Remembering a meeting twenty-five years before, in a smoky bar in the Montmartre, watching a line of women kicking up their heels to a chorus of yips and low yells of masculine encouragement.
V.
Paris, Late Spring, 1885[
William Randolph tried to ignore the drunken singing of his companions in the fiacre as the horse clip-clopped through the late night streets on the way to Montmartre, and focused instead on the nodding head of the old driver. A full moon sailed high overhead in the crisp air, the light of it dimming the starry skies over the city. They’d already climbed away from the Seine, and a turn occasionally gave him a glimpse of the city behind him. He’d been able to pick out the great bulk of Notre Dame, resting like a ship at anchor in the river. The Seine itself was a black and silver ribbon running through Paris. At the moment, as far as William Randolph was concerned, it might as well be a discarded frippery. He’d come to Paris to be grandly dissipated, and finish washing the taste of Harvard, and his rustication from that august institution, out of his mouth, but he was about ready to quit playing and start working. Start in on what he’d lately come to realize he was meant to do. But not before a last night or ten of indulgence.
When the fiacre halted, it jolted him out of his reverie. He paid little attention to the torrent of disgruntled commentary from the driver. He understood it, although his mother had never intended he learn this particular vocabulary. He simply didn’t care. Their destination was at the top of the hill, and the driver was explaining, in a manner of speaking, that he had no intention of forcing his poor, overworked horse to haul les Americains up an unreasonably steep street at this godforsaken hour of the night. Not for the pittance that he was charging them. He pointed with his whip. If they wanted to get to Le Chat Noir, they were welcome to walk the last bit.
Harkness, Bennington, and Williams protested drunkenly, but Doyle asserted that he could use a bit of a walk to clear his head. Good man, William Randolph thought. He was a bit muzzy-headed himself, at the moment. But Le Chat Noir had one of the most scandalous reputations in all of jaded Paris, for the wildness of its cancan dancers, and the absinthe that sent its patrons into fantastic, waking dreams. William Randolph was determined, this once, to sample the absinthe, and see what sort of dangerous visions it brought him.
The singing abated as they climbed the hill away from the imprecations of the driver. Ahead of them, they could see the façade of their destination, the sign brightly lit from below, and the stylized form of the snarling cat that had lent its name to the establishment was a looming black presence to the side of the gaslit sign. Below, posters on either side of the entrance advertised featured dancers, the bold outlines of La Goulue’s black stockinged legs stark amid the froth of raised petticoats that obscured her face. Even at this hour, the door was busy, men in top hats and elegant topcoats mingling with smocked workingmen coming and going. William Randolph noted wryly that the ones who seemed the most impaired by alcohol were at the better-dressed end of the spectrum.
The crowd inside was jostling for space among the small tables that filled the floor. The atmosphere was thick with the heavy scent of strong French cigarettes and ringing with conversation that almost drowned out the music of the house band, a tinny piano that William Randolph guessed had last been tuned in the reign of Emperor Napoleon, two clarinets, two trumpets, a drummer, and an oom-pah bass. All the musicians wore an air of exhausted ennui to match the tired droop of their collars. At present, the stage was empty, and William Randolph checked his watch, wondering when the next performance would begin.
Doyle spotted a table opening up, and pounced. It was tiny, and they were literally rubbing shoulders with the rest of the crowd, but it was a place to sit, and even if the waiter bore a look of bored disdain above his liberally stained apron, William Randolph refused to let it dampen his enthusiasm.
Before long, he was staring at a bulbous glass containing a good inch of pale green liquid. He picked it up and sniffed experimentally, the bitterness cutting through the tobacco fog. He’d never smelled wormwood, but the astringent herbal aroma of the liquor in his glass seemed foul enough to square with the stories he’d been told. Bennington, who’d seen it done before, offered advice on procedure, as William Randolph balanced a sugar cube on the special slotted spoon over the top of the glass, and dripped cold water from the carafe in the approved fashion. He watched in fascination as the mixture turned from green to a cloudy opal, the aromas blooming with intoxicating complexity.
As he took a last slow breath before setting the glass to his lips, a burst of loud laughter across the room caught his attention. There were not many women in the bar, but this one group seemed to consist of several brightly clad young females, clustered around a pale, auburn-haired man, his flawless evening dress setting off an intense face.
William Randolph frowned, and took a long sip from his glass of absinthe. He’d seen that man somewhere, he was sure of it. The slight burn of irritation with partial recognition was a stronger sensation to him than the muted power of the diluted absinthe. He took another sip, deeper than the first. Even with the water and sugar, the alcohol buzzed and burned along his veins, the bitter herbal flavor adding another dimension of oddity. Of course, he’d hardly been sober before they’d essayed the trip to Le Chat Noir. This was something different, however. Something…beyond.
Another burst of high-pitched laughter from the group of women drew his attention away from his glass. This time, as he stared across the room, the young man at the center of attention made eye contact with him, lifting a glass of deep red wine with an ironic smile.
That face. It was so familiar. The edge of memory itched in his brain, and, distracted, William Randolph took a hard swallow of his absinthe without thinking, almost choking on the burn. And came to a decision. He seemed to be watching himself, detached, as he slid his chair back from the table and stood. He noted that his movements were both more deliberate and less assured than usual, as he made his way across the room.
The auburn-haired young man looked up with a decidedly sardonic glint in his eye. “Oui, monsieur?” he asked.
“I know you from somewhere,” William Randolph replied. “Can’t think where, but I know you.”
The mask of amused indifference slipped. “Somehow, I think not,” he said, his English bearing an American accent. A pause. “Then again, I have a wide acquaintance. What is your name?”
“Hearst. William Randolph Hearst.”
The stranger blinked, and William Randolph thought he paled slightly, although the dim light made it hard to tell. “Really.” He looked away, mouth slightly open, as though his thoughts had overtaken speech. At length, he looked back and said, “And who is it you think I am, William Randolph Hearst?”
Maybe it was the absinthe, maybe it was hearing his own name spoken, but a gate opened in William Randolph’s mind, and he had a crystalline memory of shaking hands with a man—this man—and exchanging names. “Kostan,” he said. “Your name is Josef Kostan. But that’s not possible.”
“No. It’s not. My name is Fitzgerald.” He began to turn away, back to the blandishments of his companions, and William Randolph clearly heard one of them addressing him as “Josef.”
William Randolph shot a hand out to grasp Fitzgerald’s upper arm. “I’m not mistaken. I remember you,” he insisted.
Fitzgerald looked down coldly at William Randolph’s hand, and peeled his grip away without effort. “I can’t help your perceptions,” he said. “Perhaps you should get back to your friends.”
“Look, just meet me tomorrow. Let’s talk.”
Fitzgerald shifted his eyes, lips pressed in a tight smile. “All right. I shouldn’t, but—all right.”
“Where? When?”
“Four o’clock.” Fitzgerald’s smile broadened a bit, sparking warmth into his brown eyes. “As to where—if I am who you think I am, then you know where to meet me.” This time, his turn away was dismissive, and William Randolph was alone in the crowd, as the band struck a raucous chord. The stage filled with a cloud of flashing colors, as the string of dancers ran out, black stockings kicking up in the cancan.
VI
William Randolph frowned down at the damp stains on his boots and trouser legs. What a miserable rainy day. He’d walked half the way from his hotel to the Louvre before finding a carriage for hire. Perhaps not the best decision, but whatever his faults, he was punctual, and this was one meeting he was not about to be tardy in attending.
He remembered quite clearly the brilliance of the sky the night before, when his friends had laid him in an open fiacre on the way home from Le Chat Noir. Thank God for Harkness and Doyle. He hadn’t been much use for anything but staring up at the wheeling stars overhead. Although at least he hadn’t been completely pie-eyed like that ass, Bennington, the good-for-nothing sot. He didn’t remember much else until he’d awakened late in the morning with a throbbing head and a terrible thirst. He certainly hadn’t heard the low, distant rumble of thunder as the heavy clouds rolled in before dawn, or the sharper crack of the lightning when the storm finally broke across the city and settled into a steady downpour.
All he knew was that he’d been obscurely pleased at the dimness of the day, the muted light so much kinder to his eyes than sunshine.
Even while fortifying himself for the remainder of the day with coffee and croissants, it had not occurred to him that the weather would impede his progress. He’d spent most of his time, today, turning last night’s conversation over and over in his mind. He’d had no doubt, then, that the man calling himself Fitzgerald was his old friend Josef Kostan. Even at the age of twenty-two, the idea that a man might find it expedient to adopt a different name—for business purposes, he thought with a wry twist of his mouth—was not shocking. Between his father’s money and his mother’s formidable personality, he might have had a sheltered childhood, but the years at college had educated him in more things than Latin and history.
No, what bothered him was that after eleven years, the man looked not a single day older. That had been obvious even in the poor light of Le Chat Noir. He’d have reckoned Kostan was in somewhere in his mid-to-late twenties, both then and now. He tried to tell himself that he’d been a child when they first met, and all adults look ancient to a child, but that didn’t explain it. There was simply no way that over a decade of life left no mark whatsoever, that someone well into his thirties could possibly have that look of untouched youth.
Had it been looks alone, and even the coincidence of the first name, William Randolph might have been willing to dismiss the whole thing as a mistaken identification, but talking to him had sealed his conviction that Fitzgerald had to be Kostan. And he’d find out, shortly, what was going on. Or not. It all depended on whether or not anyone was waiting for him in the room ahead.
When Fitzgerald had told him there was one place they would meet, he’d known instantly what was meant. William Randolph marveled a little at the elegant simplicity of it. If Fitzgerald was not who William Randolph thought, there was no way he’d know to meet here. No way that bright head and neatly tailored back standing even now before the Mona Lisa could be—
“Kostan,” he breathed.
The man turned with a smirk. “I told you, it’s Fitzgerald,” he said. “And I thought we were on first name terms, William Randolph.”
Hearst sank down on a nearby bench. He was just noticing, they were alone in the Salon Carré. He wondered how that had happened, and suspected it wasn’t chance. “I knew it was you,” he said. “I knew it. But—you’re not a day older. How is that possible?”
Josef shoved his hands in his pockets of his well-tailored suit, and came to stand over his friend. He could smell no fear on the young man, only confusion. “Maybe it’s just good blood,” he responded. “I haven’t looked my age in—a very long time.”
Josef could see the thoughts whirling in William Randolph’s head painted on his face. The young man looked around, unsure whether to be glad or nervous that the gallery was empty of all but himself, Josef, and a dozen or so masterpieces of world art. “What are you telling me? And why?”
Josef smirked at him again. “I see your avid pursuit of la Fée Verte last night didn’t rob you of all your brains.”
William Randolph chuckled ruefully at the mention of the green fairy. “Not if the headache I had this morning was an indication. I don’t think absinthe will become my poison of preference. But that’s not really an answer to my question.”
Josef didn’t care to admit he wasn’t entirely certain himself why he was throwing one of his most closely held rules out the proverbial window. Cocking his head to one side, he shrugged. “I’m not really sure. I could have palmed you off with some story about an uncle, or a cousin. Hell, if enough time’s passed, I can even lay it off to chance resemblance.”
“I wouldn’t have believed that. Not after I heard your voice.”
“Indeed. I’ll have to remember that.”
“I idolized you as a child,” William Randolph said bitterly.
“And what have I done to change that?” Josef asked.
“I don’t know, Josef. You tell me.” He took a deep breath. “What are you?”
Josef turned away, thinking. “You were an extraordinary child, William Randolph. I anticipate you will become an extraordinary man.” He quirked a smile. “If you aren’t already there.” He pulled in a sharp breath. “I’m finding that when you get to a certain level of—influence—the number of men involved is limited. When I know someone who is poised to enter that group, there’s little point in hiding.” His expression grew more ironic. “Of course, usually I make sure I know their darkest secrets, first.”
William Randolph forced a shaky laugh. “So you’re saying you don’t know my secrets?”
“You’re not old enough to have secrets.”
“And how old are you?” William Randolph returned, stung.
“I doubt you’d believe the truth.”
“Try me.” William Randolph made direct eye contact, staring unflinching at Josef.
“You understand I rarely—”
“Just tell me.”
Josef’s mouth twitched, but whether in amusement or irritation William Randolph couldn’t tell. “Fine. Let’s just say, I won’t see 250 again.”
“Jesus Christ, Josef.” He rubbed his lower lip with one thumb, thinking. “Okay, if that’s true—and based on appearances I’m inclined to believe you—how do you do it?”
“I don’t ‘do’ anything. It’s more of a condition. And there’s a word, but it has what you might call negative connotations.”
“I don’t remember you being so evasive.”
“You asked easier questions, back then. And there’s very little to evade, when the topic is Renaissance painting.”
William Randolph snorted. “I do recall the sense of humor.” Then he took on a stubborn look, his strong features becoming imperious. “But am I supposed to let you get away without giving me that word?”
Josef scrubbed a hand through his short hair. “God, but you’re relentless. I’m not going to insult your intelligence—and our friendship, if that still exists—by giving you the ‘I mean you no harm’ speech.”
“Thank you, I think.”
Turning away, Josef walked over to stand in front of the Mona Lisa. “It never ceases to amaze me, how beautiful she is.”
William Randolph stood and joined him, regarding the painting with serious eyes. “I suppose you know something about ageless.”
Josef nodded, and they stood silent for several minutes. William Randolph had almost given up on an answer, when Josef spoke softly, a single word.
“Vampire.”